


Above the Sea

by theartfulroger



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Epilogue, Jack examines his feelings on a helicopter: the drabble, M/M, Takes place on a helicopter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theartfulroger/pseuds/theartfulroger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Roger have something like friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Above the Sea

            The fact of the matter was that Jack didn’t think he and Roger could be friends anymore. What was most perplexing was that he had never been sure that they were in the first place before the mess had happened, and never was he less sure of the idea of the whole thing than when he was sitting in the backseat of that helicopter and watching a speck of land disappear into an endless blue ocean. Their bodies were squished in next to each other; sardine-like. Roger was thin and brooding, chewing on a piece of bread one of the officers had handed off to the boys. Surrounded by familiar things like chairs and lightbulbs Roger’s skin looked sallow and his hair looked unruly—On the island Roger’s coloring had blended into the sand and the forest and the cove, his body had been its body. But now they were among men and machines once more, and Jack didn’t think it would ever be that easy to understand Roger again.

Soon the clouds were white, puffy wisps below them and Maurice and the littluns were sleeping. Drool glimmered at the edges of their lips. Roger continued to stare at any spot away from Jack’s face, his shoulders wrapped in a dirty towel. It was warm and quiet here, thousands of feet above the sea. The engine whirred and low voices made vague, static noises across a radio. Occasionally the helicopter swayed just the slightest and a littlun jolted awake. Jack steepled his fingers together and blinked slowly, taking a deep breath in and then letting it out. A blackened scrape on one of his legs itched and throbbed. What had he been trying to _do_ in the first place? It had been a mess, there had been brambles, everything had simply been dirty and untidy and bad.

And now that he was far away from it and could no longer remember it clearly, he thought he might miss it.

“Will you still be choirmaster when we get home?” It was Roger, his voice surly and quiet. Jack didn’t think anyone, not the littluns or the pilots, was supposed to hear him ask the question.

“I don’t know,” Jack said.

“Would you like to be?”

“What do you want to know all this for?” Jack felt a sudden irritation that Roger had broken the silent, peaceful warmth they’d been sitting in.

“It’s just that I’d like it if you were still choirmaster back home.”

Jack looked at him, head cocked sideways, then turned back to staring down at his fingers. “I know,” he said, finally. He sat back, aware now of how dry his mouth was and how much dirt there was underneath his fingernails. He found that he had recalled the words for what it was that was bothering him, although he couldn’t really make sense of them: He and Roger no longer belonged in this world.

“I did really sharpen that stick,” Roger said. “At both ends.”

“I know,” Jack said again. “I know, Roger.”

Roger made a huffing sound in response and Jack saw him draw the towel he’d been given around his body tighter. Somebody yawned and behind them, two littluns began to bicker under their breath.

“Won’t be so fun anymore,” Roger said.

“No,” Jack agreed. “But we’ll sing together,” he said, not really thinking about why.

“Different songs, now, I hope,” Roger said. “Lower stuff.”

“If you want,” Jack said, shrugging a bit. It gave him a strange, itchy feeling to discuss normalcy and talk of small things, to think of choir practice and singing range and red brick buildings and stately marble staircases. To think of being a house prefect one day, like his professors had recommended he try for once he got a little older. To think of wearing a cloth tie again, and a black felt hat and nice leather shoes. He turned to look at Roger’s dark, tangled hair, the blotches of sunburn on his nose and his gloomy, serious eyes. There was a small, grimy smear on Roger’s cheek, which suddenly annoyed Jack. He spit on his palm and reached over, wiping it off with one finger.

“Spot of dirt,” Jack said. Roger merely placed his hand on top of Jack’s own, as if to ask why Jack thought he needed to explain himself to him in the first place.


End file.
